The Man Who Can't Be Moved
by moelock
Summary: Long, long ago, a statue called Sherlock Holmes was created. His artisan created him with such care and effort, he gave life to the statue, but Sherlock could not move until he found his heart, until he found true love. Sherlock/John. AU.
1. Becoming Human

**Title:** The Man Who Can't Be Moved  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Long, long ago, a statue called _Sherlock Holmes_ was created. His artisan was so talented, he gave life to the statue, but Sherlock could not move until he found true love. He withstood the burden of thousands and thousands of years, being taken from museum to museum, and waiting for that one person. Then, John Watson came along. AU.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T (mild language and romaaaaance)  
><strong>Parings:<strong> Sherlock/John

**A/N:** What was I thinking when writing this? I don't even know! Hahahaha I was actually inspired by The Script's song "The Man Who Can't Be Moved", where the man waits for the woman he loves, refusing to budge from the place they first met. So romantic!

As always, thank you so much for reading! Please review if you have the time and if you spot any kind of mistakes, anywhere at all, let me know! Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong> Becoming Human

* * *

><p>"Sherlock Holmes, I have spent my entire life creating you, but you are not perfect yet. One day, when I am long gone, you will find someone you love. People will come and go, looking up at you with awe because of your beauty. But there will be that special person, who will come and appreciate you for not only your appearance, but the story behind you. You will come to love this person in return, with all your heart. They are your other half. And then, only when you find them, will your stone arms undo themselves to tenderly wrap around your beloved until death do you apart…"<p>

The artisan stepped forward, laying a hand on the statue, patting its arm, like a father would to his son. He stood back and fondly looked at his masterpiece with pride, grinning in satisfaction.

The statue called _Sherlock Holmes _was magnificent. He rose six feet tall and was carved from the finest marble in the entire world. Rich curls on his head were chiselled with such care and precision, it looked as if it would flow along with the summer breeze. His expression was pompous, as if he _knew_ of his unparalleled beauty, and his head was tilted upwards, watching the sky with curious, sharp eyes. His body was lean and smooth, a perfect rendition of what Adonis' might have been.

* * *

><p>Standing for thousands of years was so <em>boring<em>. Sherlock Holmes wished he could at least tap his foot, his finger, _something_! Standing for so long didn't cause him any sort of pain and it wasn't as if his muscles fell asleep or anything of the sort, but his mind, the only thing that properly functioned, completely rebelled its stagnation.

Thousands and thousands of years and still he had not found anyone who was worthy to love him. Everyone who came and saw him, just like the artisan said, simply looked up at him, gasped at how aesthetic he was then just walked away forever.

Similarly, Sherlock could not find anyone worthy of _his_ love. All of these people were such morons and all they cared about was what was "pretty", but nothing beyond that. They gawked over him, read the little fairy-tale on the placard describing his (actually very real) destiny, yet understood absolutely nothing. He was waiting for one of them to stop and look at him, _really_ look, but they were too stupid to realise that. Every day and night, though his eyes did not move, he could still observe the many people who came to see him. He remembered every face and every name shouted around him. If only he could roll his eyes at their ignorance, as well.

* * *

><p>Another New Year came and went. 2012 was here and it was time for <em>Sherlock Holmes<em> to embark on yet another tedious trip to another museum.

* * *

><p>"The artisan who created him died shortly after completing him and telling him his destiny. Nobody had ever heard of his creator before. He grew up in a small town in the middle of nowhere and devoted his entire life to creating one, single masterpiece. This masterpiece was <em>Sherlock Holmes<em>. Finally content in living, he lied down to sleep that night, and never woke again. Ever since his death, this statue has been sent from museum to museum. Its value is priceless and we are honoured to inherit him. Now, next, if you'll follow me this way…"

John Watson did not move. The rest of his university classmates brushed by him. Some of the students even tried shoving him out of the way, telling him to "Get a move on!" but he refused to budge. His legs wouldn't walk. He was completely enchanted by _Sherlock Holmes_. There was something about his eyes, as hollow and white as they were, that made them seem not so hollow and white, after all.

"Are you alive?" The question just slipped out, whispered like a secret. John sucked in a gulp of air, as if trying to take back what he said, shaking his head at the impossible possibility. He looked down at his feet then up again at the statue, eyebrows knitted together, staring at his face.

Sherlock was intrigued. Nobody had spoken directly to him before.

John blinked, tearing his eyes away, "Okay, right. This is ridiculous." After one last quick glance, he awkwardly waddled away.

If he could, Sherlock would have opened his mouth and let out a great, hefty laugh. He certainly was, in his head, but how refreshing it would have felt if he could physically do it.

Someone had the nerve to talk to him! But the elation eventually faded, because that someone had not stayed for long. Sherlock still couldn't move a muscle.

"_Not a big loss…"_ He thought.

* * *

><p>"Um. So. I'm back."<p>

Sherlock was actually shocked.

That student from yesterday had returned.

John nervously shuffled his feet against the linoleum tiles he stood on. The action made an annoying squeaking sound that echoed throughout the hall. People around _Sherlock Holmes_ turned to glare at John, who was oblivious to their leers.

But Sherlock was amused. In his mind he smirked.

No. Not in his mind.

His lips had _moved_. The right corner had certainly twitched upwards. The eye in his mind looked down and he saw John gazing up at him, mouth agape, dubious as to what he just saw. After a moment, he hastily backed away and nearly ran out of the museum.

"_No, no, no!"_ Sherlock tried to move his lips again, but they were frozen.

* * *

><p>"Me again."<p>

Today, Sherlock was excited to see the student. He called the boy "The Student" because he had yet to introduce himself.

"God, what am I doing?" John muttered under his breath.

Whenever he spoke to Sherlock, he never spoke very loudly. Sherlock understood this. He knew people would think The Student was just a little crazy if people heard him talking _to_ a statue and not _about_ it.

"You _are_ a statue, right? I mean, you're not some worker acting like one?" John took a step closer, squinting and boring daggers into Sherlock as he stared at his face, looking for any trace of movement.

Sherlock didn't move. Well, _couldn't_ move.

"Okay, well then, I'm just going to sit here. And draw you. If you don't mind." He took his place on the floor and from his bag, pulled out a sketchbook and a box of pencils. Taking a pencil, he began sketching. He stayed silent for hours, filling page after page with _Sherlock Holmes_.

About an hour before the museum closed, he stopped drawing and began talking again, seeing that the museum was almost empty, except for a few security guards who occasionally walked by.

"Must be tough, standing there all the time. It's a pretty lousy job, if you ask me."

"_You're actually assuming I work here?"_ Sherlock thought.

"I'm John Watson. I have a sister, Harry. She's older than me and… she's a drinker. I go to university and I read Fine Art, if you haven't noticed," he wiggled his pencil in the air and paused, waiting for something. After a minute, he looked disappointed and sighed, "…Suppose you're not going to tell me anything about yourself. Since you're still on the clock."

He slipped his sketchbook and pencils back into his bag and stood up, slinging it across his shoulder.

"I'll see you tomorrow, I guess." John gave a small smile and then turned away.

* * *

><p>John Watson was gone. The museum was closed and all of the lights were turned off. There was one security guard and he sat at the front desk.<p>

Sherlock Holmes had never, in his entire existence, experienced such torturous waiting. He wanted tomorrow to come faster than the seconds allowed.

He wanted to see The Student.

He wanted to see John Watson.

John Watson.

John Watson.

_John Watson._

"_John Watson." _

"John Watson."

A voice had spoken.

"John."

His lips had moved.

"Watson."

His lips moved again.

The voice was his.

He felt a warmth grow on the left side of his chest and then pool throughout his body. The warmth was like a stream and it coursed through his veins – he had veins now! A beating started where the heat had begun – a heart! His muscles relaxed as marble became flesh.

He was changing.

The transformation began slowly, then the heat inside him doubled, tripled, until he thought he was going to burst, but instead he _fell_, right onto the spot where John was sitting and he didn't _crack_. But the impact against his bones – my goodness he had bones – was painful.

Grunting, Sherlock lifted himself up on his palms.

"I can move." He sat back and marvelled at the bending joints in his hands, touched himself anywhere he could reach, pulled at his own cheeks, did everything he could to make sure this was real.

He stood but staggered back and hit the wall. All those years of standing but when he wasn't marble, it was so hard.

His legs felt like jelly and they wobbled when he tried to stand again. Gripping the wall he tried again and after a while, got the hang of it. With every step he took, he wiggled his toes; it was just so much_ fun_!

He walked around the museum. When he walked by a window, he looked at his reflection.

Sherlock Holmes, the human, had a head of soft, dark curls and a pale complexion. His eyes were a swirl of colours – green, blue, grey – and almost transparent. His bowed lips were soft, pink, and full.

And his body was very naked.

"I need clothes."

He walked to the back of the museum, where they had fashion displays. He took his pick from rows of mannequins and grabbed a deep purple collared shirt made of silk, a black suit, a midnight blue tweed coat (he particularly liked the accented red button hole), a striped navy scarf, and charcoal dress shoes. He had trouble dressing himself, particularly with closing buttons. It seemed his body wasn't quite ready to fully listen to his brain yet.

After nearly half-an-hour, he was completely dressed.

Sherlock headed towards the front of the museum, tip-toeing cautiously. Peering around a wall, he saw the security guard sitting at the front desk, head bobbing up and down as he struggled to stay awake.

He strolled up to the desk and tapped the guard on the shoulder, who jumped and looked around. Seeing Sherlock, he abruptly stood and sputtered, "W-who are you?"

"I'm sorry for startling you…" Sherlock glanced at the nametag, "…Greg Lestrade. The name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm the statue that stood in the main exhibition hall."

Lestrade nodded slowly, "R-right..."

"Do you know about my story? Why I've stayed a statue for so long?"

"You… you're looking for your true love or something like that. But nobody's come along, so you're stuck. Well. You were." Lestrade paused and looked Sherlock up and down, "Is this a dream?"

"Please, nobody could dream something this elaborate."

Lestrade was still sceptical – who wouldn't be – but he continued the conversation, "So, what? You've found your true love, then? Since you're moving."

"Yes, yes, _exactly_! And I'm leaving to be with him. So I need you to do something: don't tell anyone."

"But the statue's _gone_. You're just planning on walking out of here. What the hell am I supposed to say as an excuse?"

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and flashed an encouraging smile, "You'll think of something. Now, if you could open those doors for me so I can wait outside for John to come."

"Christ, this can't be _real_. I must be dreaming."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right, you need proof that you're not sleeping, yes?" Before Lestrade could utter another word, Sherlock's fist connected with his jaw and he was sent toppling backwards into his chair.

"For fuck's sake! Right, okay!" Lestrade massaged his jaw, opening and closing his mouth. For never getting much of a chance to practice, Sherlock really knew how to punch; his entire face was throbbing with pain. "Not a dream then…"

"The door, Lestrade." By now, Sherlock's feigned friendly tone was gone. "Quickly."

"No, no, Sherlock, not going to happen. I already got sacked from my job as Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard and I'm not going to get sacked here!"

"You were probably going to lose your job here, even without my help. Sleeping on duty? Clearly, you're not meant to work here, _Detective Inspector_. _**JUST OPEN THE DOOR**_!" Sherlock bellowed as he angrily pointed towards the exit. He was beyond desperate now. John was coming in the morning and he had to be outside to greet him.

"Fine, _fine_! But I'm not going to do it until you tell me what I'm supposed to tell my superiors when they come in tomorrow and see that you've vanished." Lestrade couldn't believe he was actually agreeing to help this raving lunatic of a statue-person-_thing_.

"What would you believe?" Sherlock asked through his clenched teeth.

"What?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No, but—"

"A rhetorical question. No wonder they got rid of you at Scotland Yard."

That one stung a bit, but Lestrade didn't let it bother him, "What would _I_ believe? You! Since you punched me in the face and you're still standing in front of me. But you can't go around punching every person you see."

He had a point. Sherlock leaned back on his heels and brought his fingertips together in thought. Then it came to him, "Tell them a university borrowed me for an art project."

"You're one of the most famous sculptures in the entire world."

"Then tell them the most famous university in the entire world took it, but within believability. Keep the university bound inside England. It's for educational purposes. They won't question you until they get really suspicious. People like them just want to know they're considered to be someone important and hearing a big-shot university name will have their ego inflated long enough for me to get what I need done."

Lestrade looked impressed, "You sure know a lot, considering you were just a statue a few minutes ago."

Sherlock shrugged, "I've been all around the world. Thousands of years, just standing around? Can't do much else but _observe_."

Lestrade hummed, "All right. That sounds good, but it's probably best if I don't let you out until the sun's at least up."

"That wasn't the deal."

"No, but it's better for you. It's freezing out there and this John fellow isn't going to come around until morning anyways. Might as well stay inside. I'll open the door at the first ray of sun."

"…Understood." Sherlock conceded and took a seat in the chair next to Lestrade, anxiously tapping his foot and drumming his fingers against the desk.

* * *

><p>"Lestrade, morning! Open the door!"<p>

Lestrade groaned. He was having such a nice nap.

"Give me a minute." He rose slowly, vision blurred and body lethargic from sleep. Meanwhile, Sherlock was a bouncing ball of energy, nearly hopping to the exit.

Lestrade turned the key and the once-statue flung himself through the glass doors, dramatically opening his arms and breathing in a lung full of London air. He exhaled, "John!"

"He won't be here for another few hours, Sherlock. Sit down on the stairs or something." Lestrade yawned and headed back inside, rubbing the cold away from his arms.

Sherlock did as he was told. He was originally planning on waiting for John on the stairs, anyways.

* * *

><p>Hours passed and the sun was setting. Sherlock stayed vigilant, eyes scanning the view of London before him, waiting for his John to appear while Lestrade watched him with concern. (The lie they had both concocted went well with the superiors. Sherlock was right; they hadn't pressed the matter any further.)<p>

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity and night had fallen, Sherlock saw a familiar figure running towards the museum. He stood to get a better look and beamed at the sight. From inside the museum, Lestrade got up, as well, and pressed his face against the glass to see.

John Watson looked like he was running for his life, lips slightly parted, puffs of white escaping them as he breathed in and out, cheeks pink and arms pumping so he could run even faster.

As he ran up the stairs, he nearly slipped and fell flat on his face, but instead, fell into open arms.

John froze, momentarily confused, then looked up. It was Sherlock, but he didn't know that, "S-sorry."

"John Watson."

John looked at him with surprise, "T-that's me…"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."


	2. The First Time

**Title:** The Man Who Can't Be Moved  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Long, long ago, a statue called _Sherlock Holmes_ was created. His artisan was so talented, he gave life to the statue, but Sherlock could not move until he found true love. He withstood the burden of thousands and thousands of years, being taken from museum to museum, and waiting for that one person. Then, John Watson came along. AU.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T (mild language and romaaaaance)  
><strong>Parings:<strong> Sherlock/John

**A/N:** Whoah! Thank you guys for all of your kind words/alerts/favourites! I woke up this morning and my inbox was flooded. It really means a lot to me, so really, thank you!

Thank you for reading and please enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2:<strong> The First Time

* * *

><p>John looked at the clock. It was 9AM and the museum had just opened.<p>

He had skipped class the past three days going to see _Sherlock Holmes_, but today, he couldn't afford it. Three days missed in a row? He needed to spend that time creating his portfolio and showing the breadth of his technique and style. Instead, he spent the time drawing the same statue over and over again. He really couldn't help it. John felt drawn to the sculpture, as if some unknown force pulled him. If he didn't know any better, he would've called it "love at first sight."

John slammed his head, hard, into his desk for even thinking about it and rebounded, mumbling curses. He held his pounding head in his hands. He was stupid. First thinking about being in love with a statue, then hitting himself in the head? He had enough on his plate and he didn't need to add a migraine to it.

"You all right?"

John turned and looked at his friend, Mike Stamford, through hazy eyes, still seeing stars because of his previous stunt, "Y-yeah. Just… stressed out."

Mike chuckled, "Aren't we all? But try not to hurt yourself."

John smiled and returned to his drawing of the model posing at the centre of the class. The model was gorgeous and a joy to sketch, but he couldn't help but think he'd rather draw _Sherlock Holmes_.

* * *

><p>The hours flew by and John didn't even realise how much time had passed. He was completely sucked into art, his nose nearly becoming a part of his sketchbook and his hand practically welding together with his pencil.<p>

It was only when Mike lightly patted him on the back that he snapped out of it. "Time to go home, John. It's nearly 8."

"Yeah, yeah, just after I finish – wait. Did you just say it's 8?" John's head snapped up and looked at the clock in wide-eyed horror.

"Yeah. You have somewhere you have to go?"

"Oh, shit," he breathed, "Yeah, I should've been there hours ago. It's probably closed by now. Shit!" John collected all of his things, stuffed them into his bag and bolted for the door. "I'll see you at home!"

* * *

><p>He was late. John was so late. He ran, ran as hard and fast as he could. The museum wasn't too far from the university, but still, he felt like he had a duty to be on time and Sherlock would be waiting for him, Sherlock would –<p>

Sherlock was a statue. He would always be there, as long as the exhibit was still open. He could go tomorrow.

But John's legs wouldn't slow down, as if they had a mind if their own. In fact, they had sped up and he felt his muscles burning. His heart pumped and his limbs flailed wildly as he silently warned people and cars he was coming through.

The museum was in sight now and he charged on with his remaining strength, up the stairs, but he missed a step and plunged forward._ Oh god, oh god, oh god, I'm gonna die, _was repeated in his head like a mantra and he squeezed his eyes, ready for impact, but instead of landing on ice-cold stone, he fell into warm, strong arms.

"S-sorry." John managed to say.

"John Watson." The man's voice was kind; a deep, rich baritone.

"T-that's me…"

The man smiled, "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>John had come! He had finally come! And he was now in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock wanted to hold him and twirl him around. He was consumed by joy, but he couldn't startle John too badly during their first proper meeting. When John had found his legs again, Sherlock helped him stand up straight.<p>

John was rooted safely to the ground again. "Wait, you're _who_?" He thought he heard wrong.

Sherlock was happy to repeat, speaking again with impeccable diction, "Sherlock. Holmes."

"_You're_ Sherlock Holmes? The statue in the museum? The one that I've been talking to the past few days?" John looked like he was going to faint. It really was endearing and Sherlock smiled fondly, nodding. "So, then… you're not a statue. You're actually an employee here."

"No, I am a statue. You've read the description placard. You know my story." Sherlock looked on, expectantly.

"You move… when you fall in love."

"Correct."

Suddenly, Lestrade interrupted. He really couldn't watch in silence anymore, "He was waiting for you, you know!"

John peered around Sherlock and looked at the security guard with doubt, "Really?"

"Yes." Sherlock's smile grew wider.

"Then…" John's brows reached his hairline, as he finally understood what he was being told.

"_You_ have moved me, John Watson."

John's jaw nearly hit the floor. "Am I dreaming?"

"The Inspector –"

"_Security guard._" Lestrade piped, leaning against the glass door.

"— asked the same question. I punched him to prove my point. I would rather not do the same to you. However, I can take a different approach. You have a sister. Her name is Harry, or Harriet, to be more precise. But she prefers going by a male name. Maybe she's interested in women, maybe not. She's a drinker, you told me yourself. You're an art student and the reason why you were late today was because you're working on a portfolio, something that's no doubt important to your future. How did I know? The smudge on the underside of your left hand, a mix of charcoal and graphite, along with the eraser shavings caught on your jumper and your bloodshot eyes, clearly suggests all you were doing today was drawing. Oh yes, I was very much _alive,_ as you put it, the day we first met."

John stared, his eyes wide and gleaming with wonder, "That was… amazing. Fantastic! You got everything. Well, most of that I personally told you, so you really are _Sherlock Holmes_, but all the rest of your deductions – you were spot-on." He laughed cheerfully, "Wow."

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

John's laugh faded into confusion, "Sorry, what?"

"Hungry? Do you want dinner? I'm sure you haven't eaten yet."

John felt his stomach turn enthusiastically at the mention of food, "Um, yeah, actually. I haven't had a bite all day."

"Excellent. We can have a date. Lestrade," Sherlock turned and held out his hand, "I need money."

Lestrade laughed wryly, "Oh, yeah, that's very funny."

"Please."

The security guard sighed, "Fine. But just this once." And he slapped 50 pounds into Sherlock's palm.

"Thank you." Sherlock gave his most sincere smile and pocketed the money, "Ready, John?"

"Ready? Ready for what?"

"I told you. Our first date! Come on!" Sherlock took John's hand and tugged him along.

Lestrade watched as they dashed through the streets. He was honestly a sucker for happy endings and earnestly wished them the best.

* * *

><p>"Aren't you going to eat?" John wondered, digging into his own plate of Chicken Parmesan.<p>

Sherlock shook his head, "Watching you is plenty enough." He set his elbow on the table and propped his head up on his hand, smiling.

John returned with a suspicious look, "Right… Um. So is this the first time?"

"If you mean the first time I've become human, yes. You are my very first." Sherlock smirked seductively.

John flushed and looked down at his food, "Thanks, I guess. But I think you should know, I'm not gay."

Sherlock shrugged, "Neither am I."

"But you moved. Because of me. Which means…"

"I'm in love you with you, yes," Sherlock said it so easily, "But why should a simple label such as sexuality bar us from each other? I don't see the problem."

John let out an exasperated sigh, "Listen. People have become a lot more accepting now than before and personally, it's all fine with me, but they'll still talk."

"People do little else," Sherlock filled John's empty glass with more wine, "I am not in love with just a man. I am in love with John Watson. And you may not feel it quite as ardently as I do, but eventually, you will love Sherlock Holmes. I'll make sure of it."

John felt his ears burn red. Sherlock noticed and let out a low laugh. He really was adorable.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for dinner." After eating, Sherlock had offered to walk John back to his flat.<p>

They stood in front of the door, albeit a little awkwardly. John fidgeted nervously, not knowing what else to say.

Sherlock leaned down so that his face was level with John's. "You're not going to invite me in?"

John sputtered and took a few steps back, "You need to go back to the museum."

"Why? I'm not turning back into stone. People will notice that I'm made of flesh now. I have nowhere else to go, John."

John looked appalled, "You were planning on coming in from the beginning!"

Sherlock nodded, flashing a sly grin, "Nothing goes by you unnoticed."

"I live with a friend, you know. What am I supposed to tell them?"

Just then, Mike Stamford opened the window of his room in their flat and poked his head out, "Welcome home, John! Oh, you've brought someone. Well, don't just stand there. Come on in."

Sherlock whispered, "He doesn't seem to mind."

John nudged an elbow into his ribs, "Shut up."

* * *

><p>John's flat was plain but inviting. Mike introduced himself to Sherlock and got the fireplace going, which sent warmth radiating to all of the rooms.<p>

Mike had offered them tea when they got in, but John refused for both of them, using "I'm exhausted" as an excuse to retire for the night. His flatmate smiled in understanding, not all questioning his and Sherlock's relationship.

* * *

><p>"Are you planning on sleeping here, too?"<p>

Sherlock unwound his scarf and slipped out of his coat, hanging it on the clothing rack beside John's closed door. "I have nowhere else to go."

"No, no, you said that before. But you have that security guard, Lestrade, to help you."

"I'd rather not. He's obviously having trouble with his wife and I don't find pleasure in intruding on their little domestic." Sherlock invited himself to lie down on John's bed.

"No, get off from there. You're sleeping on the floor." John went over to him and tried to pull him up by the arm, but instead, Sherlock dragged him down and he plopped beside him on the bed.

"Relax, John. You had a long day." Sherlock silently slipped his fingers through John's and held his hand, closing his eyes.

John was stiff as a board lying next to Sherlock. He thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his pulse to calm down. He prayed that the hand Sherlock was holding wouldn't get clammy, but just reminding himself about sweating, got him perspiring.

He jumped and opened his eyes when Sherlock chuckled, "Nervous?"

"Yeah." John replied honestly, "It's just kind of weird. Having you here and being like this." He lifted their intertwined hands to show what he meant.

Sherlock hummed, a content smile plastered on his face. "There'll be plenty of opportunities for you to get used to it."

"How can you talk like that? I only met you three days ago and you were a statue then and now you're saying how, how you love me, and you're holding my hand. In my bed." John cleared his throat and almost choked on his words.

"The man who created me said that in my entire existence, there would only be one person who I would move for. Just one. You're the one, John. If you waited thousands of years and you finally found that person, wouldn't you do all you could, as fast as you could, to make sure they didn't leave?" Sherlock turned his head to look at John and found that John was already looking at him. "My feelings for you are sincere."

Before he could even comprehend what he was doing, Sherlock reached for the back of John's head and brought him closer. John allowed himself to be pulled in, eyes fluttering shut. Their lips touched. Their breath caught in their lungs. Their hearts connected and beat in synch with each other. Their first kiss was brief and chaste, but the heat it ignited within them never went away.

They parted. They breathed and stared into each other's eyes for a long moment.

Sherlock smiled the smile of a man who was completely and utterly in love.

John's eyes were wider than normal, his brain trying to process what his heart had already accepted. A pause, and then his entire face became red. He let out a strangled cry from embarrassment, shook his hand free from Sherlock's, and turned his back towards his partner, popping his coat collar up to hide his crimson ears.

Sherlock laughed, not discouraged at all by the reaction because he knew it wasn't one of rejection. He wrapped an arm around John's body and buried his face into his blond hair, breathing him in. "Good night, John."

"Yeah, like I can sleep after what you just did!" He mumbled and curled further into himself.

Sherlock allowed himself another chuckle, "I'm not sorry."


	3. Head and the Heart

**Title:** The Man Who Can't Be Moved  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Long, long ago, a statue called _Sherlock Holmes_ was created. His artisan was so talented, he gave life to the statue, but Sherlock could not move until he found true love. He withstood the burden of thousands and thousands of years, being taken from museum to museum, and waiting for that one person. Then, John Watson came along. AU.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T (mild language and romaaaaance)  
><strong>Paring(s):<strong> Sherlock/John

**A/N:** Thank you for your continued support!

Also, the London Museum of Art, to my limited knowledge, isn't an actual museum. I was afraid of using an existing museum since I've never been to England and probably won't be going any time soon. I've certainly been to museums, but I don't know if LACMA (a museum near me) and say, the British Museum are similar in appearance and the art they exhibit. Also, I imagine that John and Mike's flat layout is similar to 221B, except without all the fancy furniture and clutter.

As always, please let me know if you see any errors and enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3:<strong> Head and the Heart

* * *

><p>The next morning, Sherlock and John woke completely tangled up in one another. John found that Sherlock had been awake long before him. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring down at him, smiling warmly, as if he was the most fascinating creature in the whole of the universe.<p>

Now, they were cooking breakfast at the flat.

"Eggs, bacon, and toast. We don't have much else to eat." John shuffled through the fridge and grabbed what he needed. "And we're out of jam. Fantastic." He closed the door with his foot and laid everything out by the stove.

Sherlock was sitting at the table in one of John's shirts and the trousers he took from the museum, his body twisted so that he was facing John.

"Don't suppose you know how to cook." John called as he retrieved a frying pan and oil from the cupboard.

Sherlock sprang up onto his feet and took exactly three strides before he was looming behind John. "Teach me."

John glanced back. Sherlock was looking at him with a smug smile. John batted his eyes uncomfortably, silently telling Sherlock to take a couple steps back because cooking with a 6 foot giant pressed up against him and breathing on top of him could pose to be a bit challenging. Sherlock didn't budge, but his grin grew wider.

John huffed a sigh. He already learned to give up trying to get Sherlock Holmes to do what Sherlock Holmes didn't want to do. John scooted to the right. Sherlock followed. John twisted a knob on the stove and it came alive in a burst of fire. He placed the pan onto the stove then popped off the cap on the oil and poured an ample amount in. After a moment of waiting, he cracked an egg. It sizzled on the pan upon contact. John put the shells aside.

"Let me try." Sherlock demanded enthusiastically as he leaned forward. John was going to move out of the way, but Sherlock placed a hand on his hip. "It's fine. I can do it from here." He stuck out his free hand around John for an egg. John reached over and held up an egg. Sherlock took it in between his long, pale fingers, and cracked it against the counter, swiftly hovered it over the pan as it opened, and let it sizzle into a perfect "O" in one graceful movement.

John watched in amazement. "Wow. Impressive. It still takes me two hands to crack an egg."

"I'm a quick learner."

"Yeah, I could tell. You want to just take over?"

Sherlock tossed aside the shells and wrapped his arms around John's torso, "No, I just wanted to try it once." He smiled into John's hair and stifled a giggle at seeing John's ears flush red.

"You're not going to let go, are you?"

"Would you like me to?"

"Are you asking out of courtesy or because you actually care for my opinion?"

"I'll always care about what you think, John."

"Then I think you should let go of me."

"Mmm… No."

"Sherlock!"

"John."

"No, seriously, Sherlock."

"The eggs are burning."

"Shit!"

Without further incident, John Watson successfully made their first breakfast, as Sherlock Holmes remained firmly attached at his hip.

They sat across from each other, both with their own plate of bacon, fried eggs, and buttered toast.

John dug in without a word. Sherlock watched him.

John quirked an eyebrow and looked up from his plate, "You're not eating?"

Sherlock picked up a slice of toast and took a bite.

"… You don't have to force yourself."

"It's delicious."

John swallowed a piece of bacon in his mouth and set down his utensils. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Sherlock finished his toast. "Nothing."

John narrowed his eyes then slowly resumed his meal. "You've never eaten anything before. Sorry if this isn't exactly gourmet."

"It's not that." Sherlock offered a sincere smile that reached his eyes and ate a strip of bacon, but never took his eyes off of John.

The truth was, Sherlock would honestly rather watch John eat than actually partaking in eating. Consumption of food, he found, was incredibly mundane and bothersome, except when John was doing it. When John was doing anything – walking, talking, eating, sleeping – it was _fascinating_. He didn't want to miss a thing.

Before Sherlock realized it, he was staring intently at John as if he was a newly discovered species under a microscope.

"Do I have something on my face?" John finally asked, nearly done with his meal. Sherlock was just getting to his first egg.

"Sorry?"

John returned Sherlock's intense gaze.

Sherlock's brows furrowed together in confusion. When John didn't show any sign of looking away after a minute, Sherlock realized what he was trying to say. "_Oh_," he breathed, "no, no, you look fine. Perfectly fine."

John gave Sherlock an incredulous look. He scarfed down his last egg. Maybe this was just how Sherlock was. He already saw Sherlock's brilliant mind at work, being able to deduce the most minute details of a person with a single look. He probably did this by observing everyone with those piercing grey eyes.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the side, feeling a bit awkward. "Where's Stamford?"

Finished with his breakfast, John sat back and took a sip of his coffee. "At the university. He's working on his portfolio."

"You don't have to be there?"

"Not really. Neither of us have class today. He could do his work here, too, but Mike usually prefers being in an actual studio. Helps him concentrate."

Sherlock nodded and went onto his second egg.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Tell me about yourself."

Sherlock chewed and swallowed the egg. He took a large gulp of his tea and struggled not to make a face as his throat burned from the liquid. "What do you want to know?" he croaked.

John shrugged, "I don't know, anything. The people you've seen, the places you've been."

"There's nothing interesting to say of the people. I only ever saw them when they walked by me in the museums and galleries. They all led dull lives. Practically all of them were idiots. Always asking, 'Why me? What's wrong with my life?', when the evidence and answers were always right under their noses. They saw, but failed to understand."

"But you could understand." John smiled.

Sherlock returned proudly, "Yes. One glance and they were practically transparent."

"And the places?"

"I was all over the world, but I wasn't outside, wasn't exactly in a position to just get up and move. I was always inside, inside of trucks, ships, airplanes, and once transported, I was inside buildings."

"Not that exciting then."

"No… _Boring_."

John hummed in contemplation then took another drink of his coffee.

"Do you enjoy it? Being human, I mean." He asked.

Sherlock stood and collected the plates, looking at John with a certain twinkle in his eyes. John knew what he was going to do, but before he could pull back, Sherlock's hand was under his chin, gingerly tilting his head up. Sherlock leaned over and stole a soft, yet heated kiss. They parted. His lips curved into a satisfactory smirk. "Having a heart has its perks."

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John headed out after cleaning up breakfast. They went to shop for groceries because John was absolutely devastated they had actually run out of jam.<p>

"What's that?"

"Jam. It's made from fruit and we put it on things like bread."

"Is it good?"

"I can't live without it."

"There are a lot of flavours. Have you tried them all?"

"No, Mike and I usually get strawberry or grape. Haven't really tried the others."

"Excellent." Sherlock began collecting every type; peach, blackberry, apricot, plum, etcetera.

"Oh, no. No, no, no. Sherlock, I can't afford all of that. Put those back." John retrieved the jam Sherlock had already put in their basket and placed them back on the shelves.

"What? I want to try them."

"Yeah? Then get a job and buy them yourself." John retorted, getting the usual strawberry and grape flavours.

Sherlock scoffed, "A job. How dull."

"Maybe, but money certainly isn't, as you like to say, 'dull'."

* * *

><p>Back at the flat, John and Sherlock spent the hours watching movies and terrible telly. Whenever they watched a murder-mystery, Sherlock had it all figured out after the exposition. When they watched glimpses romantic comedies (why John even paused at those channels was beyond him), Sherlock kept shooting glances at John and moving closer. They sat together on the sofa in silence throughout the night. Sherlock obviously wanted to hold hands, but John made it clear they would be doing nothing of the sort. Even so, Sherlock had no comprehension of the phrase "personal space" and they were practically glued together in front of the screen. John was sitting up, leaning against the arm of the sofa. Sherlock was lying on his side with his head resting on John's shoulder.<p>

As the credits for the 4th _Harry Potter_ movie rolled and the clock struck 11PM, John's phone beeped with a text from Mike.

Going to the pub with Sarah.  
>Want to come?<br>MS

Sorry, no. In the middle of a  
>movie with Sherlock.<br>JW

Have fun!  
>MS<p>

That was Sarah.  
>MS<p>

It's not like that between me  
>and Sherlock. But thanks.<br>JW

John put his phone on silent.

"Sure you don't want to go?"

"H-how did you know?"

Sherlock gave a small smile.

"It's fine. I'll stay here." John returned the smile.

Sherlock twisted his body so he could lie on his back and stretched his legs out. They dangled over the edge of the sofa. He fell back and rested his head on John's lap.

Silence hung above them.

"How do you know what you feel is love, Sherlock?"

The question was blurted out suddenly and louder than John intended. John mentally cursed himself and scrunched his eyes together in embarrassment. His heart pounded in his ears.

Sherlock stared up at him, wide-eyed. The volume of John's voice startled him more than the actual question because really, it wasn't that difficult for him. He loved John. He had _moved_ for the man. What more was there to explain?

Sherlock lifted his arm and gently laid a hand upon John's cheek. "John?"

His eyes remained closed.

"Look at me, John."

John hesitated. Curses continued to run through his mind. He opened his eyes slowly and he focused on Sherlock.

Sherlock's expression could only be described as _warm_. Warmth overflowed from his eyes, despite how cold his skin was; just the way he looked at John, the way his lips kissed John's, the tender way his hands touched John wherever he was permitted to reach, should have all been enough to convey his feelings, but nothing about "love" was ever that simple.

"It's difficult, Sherlock." John took Sherlock's hand and leaned his face into it, closing his eyes again.

"It isn't for me." Sherlock looked on in concern, but somewhere in him, there was a poignant annoyance bubbling, vehemently whispering: _I love you so much. Why can't you just _see_ that?_

"I know… I know… but…"

Sherlock abruptly sat up and his hand slipped out of John's. He met John's now open eyes with a fierce, defensive gaze. "But _what_? _What_ are you afraid of?" His voice rose to a shout despite himself.

John didn't falter at the sudden increase in Sherlock's volume. His voice was steady and calm. "That this is just something that'll pass, that you won't always be here and you won't always feel how you feel now. You've only known me for a day, Sherlock."

"Four days, going on five." Sherlock corrected.

"You know what I meant."

"You read the placard. You read it. You visited me for three consecutive days and promised to come on the fourth. You're denying your obvious feelings for me because you're scared of what people will say if we're together. _I_ don't care what other people will think. Why should you?" Sherlock spoke quickly and his voice was now reduced to a hiss.

John threw his hands up in frustration. It was his turn to shout. "For God's sake, Sherlock, you're not listening! It's not other people I'm worried about. It's_ you_. And _me_."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. He was baffled. "I don't understand." He admitted weakly.

John shook his head. "No, no, you don't."

They stared at each other for a long while.

Then Sherlock stood and swiftly left the flat, still wearing John's shirt and leaving his coat and scarf behind. John let him go without another word.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was man of steel. He was former Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard and now the current one-man security force at the London Museum of Art. Night duty was a piece of cake to him and he was so at peace that most of the time, he fell asleep.<p>

But when it was nearly one in the morning and he saw Sherlock Holmes' grim face pressed up against the museum glass, dark hair drenched with rain and plastered upon his pallor, he had to physically swallow his screams. The sight was both pathetic and eerie.

Lestrade unlocked the doors and Sherlock trudged inside the museum, dripping puddles and shivering. Lestrade breathed out an uncertain chuckle, "Back already? Thought you and John would be spending a while together." Sherlock shot him an eyeful of daggers. "R-right… I'll get you something dry."

After changing into a spare security guard uniform left in the "employee's only" lounge, Sherlock took Lestrade's chair, stretched his legs out onto the desk and sat back with his eyes closed. Lestrade rolled is eyes at the other's blatant rudeness, but mentioned nothing of it, seeing as his guest had a long night. He dragged a chair from the lounge and took a seat opposite of Sherlock, watching him with a million questions, but knowing that he shouldn't ask any of them yet unless he wanted to be killed.

"I need a cigarette." Sherlock's eyes flashed open.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"A cigarette. Give me one." Sherlock hissed.

"Sorry, don't smoke." Lestrade rolled up his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch slapped onto his arm.

Sherlock scowled. He lifted his legs up off the desk and pressed his feet against the floor, using them to pull himself forward. He slammed his hands harshly on the desk and then ruffled his hair, growling angrily.

Lestrade's body snapped back at Sherlock's sudden movement. When Sherlock settled down, head in his hands and completely defeated, Lestrade relaxed and resumed his position. He gathered his courage and ventured into dangerous waters, "So, I'm assuming something happened with John?"

"Excellent deduction, Inspector." Sherlock immediately shot back, tone seeping with sarcasm.

Lestrade knew it wasn't a compliment. "And?"

Sherlock sighed and looked up. "He's upset with me."

Lestrade nodded, signalling for Sherlock to go on.

"He doubts my affection for him."

Lestrade contemplated the response for a moment. "I can understand why."

Sherlock's lips twitched in irritation.

Lestrade caught it and continued speaking before Sherlock had another outburst. "No offense to you or anything, but you just talked to him for the first time yesterday."

"Your point?"

"You know a lot about the world, Sherlock, all of the facts about human behaviour, but when it comes to emotion and actually experiencing anything, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you don't know much. John looked young. He's still got a long way to go in life, but you have to admit, he's probably _experienced_ more than you have, even if he hasn't read textbooks describing everything. It's only natural he's a little sceptical. This whole love thing you're talking about… It's not about the mind. It's about the heart. Do you get it?"

"I don't need relationship advice from you," Sherlock lashed out, throwing a glance at Lestrade's left ring finger, a band of lighter skin outlining where a wedding ring once was.

Lestrade shrugged, "Things weren't going well. The wife left me. I don't have a chance to get back with her and honestly, I don't know if I want to try anymore. You don't have to listen to anything else I say, because you're right about relationships and me. But listen to this, _really_ listen: what happened to me is going to happen to you if you don't do something, Sherlock."


End file.
